


Red Herring

by splunge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Johncroft, Just a cuddly Johncroftian Story :), Light Angst, M/M, Romance, Sex, crack-ish fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splunge/pseuds/splunge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realises that his brother is trying to woo his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft’s New Regime

**Author's Note:**

> My first Johncroft story. Please let me know what you think. There are five chapters altogether. The story is finished; I will try to edit and post each chapter every couple of days. Thanks for reading and I hope you will enjoy. :)
> 
> EDIT: Apologies! I lied. After some tedious editing, Chapter 5 has been divided into two parts in order to balance the pace of the story a bit, so, in short, this story has six chapters.

It was often said that if Sherlock Holmes had turned his unique powers unto the vast world of criminality, he would have been the best villain England would ever encounter. Fortunately, he did no such thing. Although he didn’t care to admit it, this was due in large part to his strong sense of morals instilled by his loving parents and the strong discipline and high-mindedness established and trained by his brother. It was also his brother who had taught him the notion that a red herring can be beneficial to the hunter while at the same time disadvantageous to the hunted. In his line of work, a red herring was vast and must be eliminated in order to ensure a clear road to a valid deduction. And in front of his very eyes—the eyes of the world’s only consulting detective—at this precise moment, the man who had played a significant role in indoctrinating him into the calculated machine that he was, the man whom he was obligated to call his brother, had the scent of several red herrings all over him. 

And these would need to be eliminated, one by one.

“You… joined the gym,” he said, quirking his eyebrow with questioning surprise, intrigue, and mockery.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock,” replied his brother.

“You gained weight.”

“Losing it.”

“No,” argued Sherlock, dragging his word jeeringly. “ _Gaining_ it, in muscles. You have been working out.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said with an exasperated sigh, “I’ve brought you one of the most complex cases of your career and you want to discuss mundane matters such as this? It’s utterly childish.”

“Why are you working out?”

“Drop it.”

“To impress someone. Oh!” Like a bolt of lightning, a thought struck him and Sherlock smirked. “You are a sad, fat, lonely man, brother mine.”

Mycroft’s face contorted in a way that suggested immense annoyance and it could only serve to confirm Sherlock’s inference. With this, Sherlock gave a chuckle.

Mycroft ignored and simply handed his brother the large file in a somewhat forceful manner: “Read it.”

“Really, Mycroft, just when I thought you couldn’t stoop any lower. Oh, wait, I’m mistaken, _higher_. The Queen. _Really_?”

“Sherlock.”

“Kowtowing to royalty. Do you crawl on your hands and knees when she enters the room?”

“Sherlock Holmes, read the damn file!”

Sherlock simply stared at his brother in a contest that he would always win simply because Mycroft thought it was beneath him to engage in such a silly game.

“Hey, Sherlock, is everything all right?”

John Watson had entered the room before the two brothers could set themselves right. He looked from one brother to the other, sensing their little skirmish.

“Quite excellent, John,” answered Sherlock, his eyes were still on Mycroft. “I was discussing with my brother how he could rightly be approved for a personnel in one of her majesty’s troops of corgis.” 

With that, Sherlock stood from his chair and whisked himself towards the kitchen. Mycroft’s face flushed with anger and slightly with embarrassment.

“I must apologise for my brother’s behaviour, John,” said Mycroft.

“If everyone starts apologising to me for Sherlock every time, my ears will bleed from hearing it.”

John smiled and the tension in the air eased quite considerably. Mycroft smirked slightly, almost appreciative. John looked at him for a moment before he spoke again.

“You look different today, Mycroft.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah.”

“In a positive way, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. Yeah. Just something, I can’t put my finger on it. You look good.”

John shuffled his feet uncomfortably. 

“Thank you, John,” said Mycroft, to which John smiled. He looked towards Sherlock who was now tossing items from the refrigerator into the kitchen sink. “Can you make sure my brother read this?”

Mycroft handed the file to John.

“Err, yeah, yeah, sure. What is it?”

“A matter of national security.”

“Right.”

Sherlock reentered the room with a mug of concoction that would disqualify in the first round in a contest of drinkable drinks.

“John, have you ever heard of a queen longing for the Queen?” Sherlock said and slumped down onto the sofa and lay with his legs crossed at his ankles. “Mycroft here goes to the gym for her majesty! Do you grovel when you see her, brother?”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a cold look. What possessed Sherlock to keep making the same similar jokes on one single topic over and over again was beyond his comprehension.

“We haven’t a case for weeks, he’s been a dickhead all day,” said John with a sympathetic smile. Mycroft returned one to him; if what John said was true then John might have been suffering from Sherlock’s verbal assaults more than he. 

“Quite,” replied Mycroft. Then, assuming his friendly demeanour that he found quite easy in the presence of John Watson, he asked, “Did you know, John, that before the ghastly business with Redbeard,” and here Sherlock’s brows contracted angrily,  couldn’t believe the words that were to pour out of Mycroft’s mouth, “Sherlock had a gerbil, whom he named Princess Margaret? And when the little ghastly thing died, he cried for weeks? I believe that, in some inexplicable way permuted by that mind of his, probably contributed to his disdain for the royal family.”

Mycroft gave a satisfied smile. John couldn’t contain his smile; he had almost chuckled when Sherlock got up abruptly and threw the contents of his mug onto Mycroft’s suit, narrowly missing John’s trousers and shoes.

“Jeez, Sherlock!” John yelled angrily.

“Oops,” Sherlock shrugged with an unaffected face. He set the mug down on the coffee table and moved down the corridor towards his bedroom.

“You insufferable boy!” Mycroft cried after Sherlock’s retreating form. Before Mycroft could register what was happening, John had begun wiping his suit front with a towel that he hadn’t a clue where the doctor had conjured from. 

“What the hell is this stuff?” John murmured and wrinkled his nose at the smell emitting from the brown fluid. The thick, treacle-like substance created a what would certainly be a permanent stain on Mycroft’s cream silk shirt and wool waistcoat. Luckily, his suit jacket was spared—just a few droplets and speckles that John was able to wipe clean.

John dutifully scrubbed.

“That’s quite all right, John,” said Mycroft. “I have a change of clothes at the office.”

“I can’t let you walk into your office looking like that. What will your subordinates think?”

“That I’ve just visited my brother?”

“Let me try to clean it properly at least,” there was something in John’s voice that sounded almost like an apologetic request than a polite gesture. “C’mon. I got some good soap in the bathroom.”

John, grabbing Mycroft by his elbow, led them down the corridor and into the small bathroom. He rummaged through the bottom drawer of sink cupboard until he found what he was looking for. He wet a clean towel—John’s very own towel, Mycroft noted—squeezed the cleaning liquid into it, and began to dab and scrub.

“Shit! It’s not coming off,” John grumbled.

“You have done enough, John. Much appreciated.”

John sighed and said, “Let me get you a clean shirt to change into. You wouldn’t want to sit in that all the way back to your office.”

“Of course not, but I doubt I would fit into one of yours, John.”

John exhaled again and moved towards the door. “Stay here, don’t leave.” He strode quickly towards Sherlock’s room and after a moment, in the distance, Sherlock’s barking of “That’s my shirt!” could be heard. 

“Well, you’re the one who caused all that mess, might as well deal with the consequence!” John said quite sharply and Sherlock didn’t protest after that, merely huffed very loudly. John’s voice was getting nearer as he walked back towards the bathroom, he continued to chastise Sherlock: “Besides, it’s the only clean one.”

John returned with the silk purple shirt that Sherlock was so partial to wearing and was struck frozen on his tracks when he came back to a half-naked Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had, by this moment, removed his suit jacket, his ruined waistcoat and shirt, and was anticipating John’s offer. 

John didn’t blink. He simply looked at the man before him. Mycroft’s body was an unexpected sight. It was clear that he had been working out. Although Mycroft was a man with a naturally lean and well-built frame, he also had a round, smooth middle that Sherlock often teased about. But here, it wasn’t the central point and although it was evident that the soft middle was there, albeit faintly, what captured John’s attention was the upper torso, which was toned and firm. Nipples were pink and round and soft like a stretched-out canopy over a smooth dome, peeking out from under vast hairs. There was hair everywhere, from the base of his neck to just bellow his bellybutton, but that wasn’t a bad thing at all, instead, it enhanced _everything_.

“John?”

Mycroft might have been calling his name for some time because when he was snapped out of it, he looked up and saw Mycroft’s inquisitive gaze. 

“Is everything all right?”

“Err, yea—yeah. Yeah…” 

_Stammering like an idiot, great._

He righted himself but not before dropping the shirt completely onto the floor like a downright prat. He quickly fetched it and handed it to Mycroft. “It really is clean. Trust me. I washed it myself.”

“You do my brother’s laundry?” Mycroft asked as he took John’s offering. 

“Someone’s got to, mate,” John answered and then, he winced. He paused for a moment and excused himself, “Right. I’ll wait outside.”

John had only a short duration to chastise himself for his complete display of stupidity when Mycroft returned to the sitting room.

The silk shirt looked good on him. _Very, very good_ , thought John, _although a bit too tight, not a bad thing at all_. He had never seen Mycroft looking more casual than this moment—he had abandoned his waistcoat and tie altogether. Mycroft’s neck was exposed, his chest hair poking out from the unfastened collar; the top buttons below the collar clung on as though they could not contain the flesh within. The fit sleeves accented newly toned biceps. 

“I’ll send my assistant to retrieve the rest of my clothes,” said Mycroft. “I hope you wouldn’t mind me leaving them in your bathroom until such time.”

“Sure. It’s all right.”

“Please do make sure my brother consult that file.”

“I will.”

Shifting his feet, his hands hung loosely at his side, John said,  “Ah, and sorry… for calling you… ‘mate’” and started to scratch the back of his head uncomfortably.

“An apology is unnecessary. I’m quite content to hear that you regard me as such.”

“Thanks,” said John, almost blushing.

“I’ll see you very soon, Dr Watson.”

Mycroft took his leave, heading for the stairs when he met Sherlock at the top landing.

“You worked out for _John_ ,” said Sherlock with blank emotion.

“Yes. Very glad to hear that you have finally figured it out.”

“You knew I would make an incorrect deduction and create such a scene.”

“I trust that you would, yes.”

“You’re despicable.”

“No, dear brother, I simply know how to execute a good plan. Good day to you, Sherlock.”

Right. 

Sherlock smirked despite himself. He had to admit, he was fooled, fooled by his older brother’s so absurdly simple plan. _A very big red herring indeed_ … Now, how to file such information for further uses if he should ever encounter such a human action again in the future and at the same time, how to delete it so that he could cure himself from the plague of the fact that his very own brother fancied his roommate. 

 


	2. Mycroft’s New Plan

Mycroft had not expected John’s reaction to be so evident. It was frightfully clear that the good doctor was keen on him. His usually calm and unruffled heart beat a few beats faster at the thought. But, whether the evidence as he saw it was pure unadulterated affection or simply changeable and possibly misplaced lust (John’s libido could be on the rise, Mycroft had been observing that John hadn’t a date for the past month or so), he could not be absolutely certain and he needed to be one hundred per cent certain; there should not be a single ounce of doubt.

He had arranged a small meeting with John in a café near Whitehall, an intimate little place just a walk from the National Gallery. He detested the noise and the tourists, people in general to be frank, but it was a prime location for his next course of action. 

“I didn’t take you for this kind of place,” said John when he took his seat. 

The café was one of those modern London establishments with a touch of class and richness combined with down-to-earth hipsterish elements. One of the baristas behind the counter, for instance, was a nice-looking lad: clean-cut, dark-haired in a button-down and a waistcoat—a modern gentleman—but he also had tattoos covering both of his arms and neck. If Mycroft wanted to employ his plan to its fullest, he had to endure. 

_For John_.

“I wanted to thank you for your wonderful hospitality the other day,” Mycroft started, playing at the rim of the glass of water with his finger. 

They sat facing each other, knees almost touching under the table, waiting for their order to arrive. The door to the establishment was open, a light breeze and the soft mid-morning sunlight streamed in. Mycroft sat with his back to the wall on one of those long straight length booth-style seatings; he hated this of course, so public and open, anyone could easily slide in next to him at the next table and basically share his seat. The only consolation was the view in front of him. John was beaming up at him.

“It’s all right,” he said, smiling still. “Since you’ve assigned Sherlock the case, he’s been less of a pain in the arse.”

Mycroft arched his brow.

“Sorry,” said John. He hadn’t never really cursed in front of Mycroft before. Well, an arse was still an arse, a body part really, nothing offensive about that. John felt a bit awkward anyway and Mycroft could rightly see that.

“My brother mastery fits that description,” he said, easing the slight tension. “He’s been mine for years until you kindly took over.”

John smiled, relief was clear. He glanced around. “They haven’t called us yet, have they?”

Another one of the many reasons Mycroft hated this kind of place: self-service. No waiters to take your order, you would simply place one yourself at the bar and would be asked to take a seat and until you are called. _Absolutely appalling—such a long and tedious process._ However, today would be different because today, Mycroft Holmes was their customer. And so, before John could enquire any further, the young handsome barista with the tattoos arrived with their order. 

“Oh, hey, thanks very much, mate,” said John, obviously surprised by the special treatment.

“My pleasure, sir,” replied the barista. He set down the pastry, the mug of black coffee for John, and for Mycroft: “And here’s your caffè latte, sir, and this exquisite valrhona chocolate cherry cake, especially for you. We’ve just got it in this morning. On the house.”

“Thank you, Tyler,” said Mycroft, “very thoughtful of you.”

The barista grinned from ear to ear. 

John’s smile, on the other hand, Mycroft noted, was fading.

“My absolute pleasure, _Mycroft_ , as always.”

The way in which Tyler punctuated Mycroft’s name made John sit uneasily. Perhaps it was because he had never heard anyone address Mycroft by his given name; it was always ‘Mr Holmes.’ John drank his coffee, his lips hardly flinched when they touched the ceramic mug—obviously very used to the hot liquid—and concentrated on its handle without looking up. 

Mycroft sipped his latte gracefully while letting a momentary silence hung between them.

“You come here often,” said John, matter-of-factly.

“If time permits,” said Mycroft, “only on rare occasions, of course, when that happens.”

“You’re not busy today, then.”

“I am, but I’ve made an exception today.”

“I can see that, yeah.”

There was displeasure there, so achingly obvious. Mycroft smirked with some satisfaction. There wasn’t any awkwardness between them now but a long stretch of silence, save of course for the surrounding and sounds of the espresso machine, the grinding of coffee beans, the scooping of ice into glasses and plastic take-away cups, and patrons and customers and caffeine-craved Londoners. 

John took a sip of his coffee again and hadn’t touched his pastry nor had he looked up; there seemed to be some strong thoughts flowing in his head.

“Am I tedious company?” Mycroft asked, dropping his voice a bit.

John finally met his eyes. He was about to protest, it came out as an inaudible mumble. 

“I can understand now and only agree with my brother’s evaluation that I am a dull and uninspiring man.”

“No!” John protested. It was clearly louder than John himself had anticipated, but it didn’t seem to bother him in any way because he simply continued, “For once, Sherlock’s utterly and completely wrong. You’re not.”

“What can be said otherwise then?”

“Many things…”

“You don’t have to indulge me—”

“Amazing… for one.”

That caught Mycroft by surprise. He hadn’t expected that.

“Witty, intelligent…”

He didn’t expect that either.

John’s eyes were dark and penetrating; seriousness displayed all over. 

“Sherlock can be an idiot, you know that, Mycroft. You’re never a tedious company. I’m thrilled that you allow me to sit with you. Wherever we sat or will be sitting…”

John cleared his throat, stopping himself from going any further. He sipped from his mug once more. By the expression on John’s face, Mycroft could hear nothing but “ _Shit, shit, shit, shit._ ” He smiled. Looking past John, he saw Tyler pouring steamed milk into a cup, clearly making his latte art. Mycroft let John’s words ring in his ears, in his head, in his mind, and let them swim in his thoughts—like sweet steamed milk in bitter coffee. _John’s sweetness in his bitter life_.

When he regained his attention and focus, he saw that John had turned back from looking at Tyler as well. Now, John was looking at him. John had followed his line of sight.

John sighed, took up his mug again, and gulped down the last of his coffee. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand carelessly. There weren’t any napkins—self-service, after all—and the accommodating Tyler failed to provide them any. John swore inwardly to himself. Mycroft took John’s hand, turned it around in his, and wiped the coffee stains with his pocket square. 

John, clearly taken by this, stared back at Mycroft with wide eyes.

Mycroft let his hand linger around John’s a second longer, then several seconds, then until John would decide to pull away.

John didn’t pull away.

“How’s everything?” Tyler appeared at their table and asked, all smiles.

“Lovely,” Mycroft answered, his thumb caressing the back of John’s hand absently. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need anything else, Mycroft.”

The young man walked away with his usual bright smile, but not without looking down with a short glance at their combined hands.

John looked at them too, their hands, and pulled away.

“Perhaps, it is best that we conclude this meeting,” said Mycroft.

“But, you hardly touched your food. Have a bite at least. I know you’ll be working all day, and to have nothing in your stomach but coffee…”

“I shall be fine, John. I have been conducting myself like this for years.”

There was an air of malaise between them now. Mycroft stood up promptly and inclined his head a little with a soft “Until next time, Doctor.”

He walked to the corner of the street and waited for his car. John caught up with him just a few minutes later.

“Here,” John said and handed him a small take-away box. “Your cake. For later.”

As Mycroft received it with one hand and before he could brace himself, John stepped close and restored the pocket square that he had abandoned and long forgotten back into the front pocket of his suit. John pressed his hand against his chest, smoothing out the wrinkles and creases, straightening his lapels.

“Gonna smells like coffee a bit,” John said lowly and met Mycroft’s eyes with hands still flushed up against the centre of Mycroft’s chest and left breast. “It will stain I’m afraid.”

“Not to worry,” said Mycroft. “Good day, John.”

 

***

 

“He asked about you, you know,” Sherlock told him one afternoon. They were in his office at Whitehall, going over the final points of the case. Sherlock, as Mycroft had hoped, maintained concrete evidence that proved his initial hypothesis, and the final step was to apprehend the suspect and recover the missing diplomat. The case had been interesting for his brother, he could see the child-like exuberance in Sherlock’s eyes. However, there was also an indistinct cloud of hostility and irritation over his features, and this sudden change of topic certainly established that this was indeed true. At the same time, it delighted Mycroft in ways he couldn’t rightly explain. 

“Oh?” he responded.

“Don’t pretend to be so indifferent, you knew he would.” 

There was a sort of accusation in Sherlock’s tone and he wasn’t finished just yet: “Flirting in a coffee shop, really, Mycroft? How uninspiring!”

“How could you possibly know about that?”

“I followed John. Naturally.”

“You were supposed to be validating the evidence in Hampstead Heath.”

“Oh! Don’t underestimate my abilities. That took me five minutes. I followed him after I finished.”

“I’m sure there’s more to this, why, don’t let me stop you.”

Sherlock huffed. His contorted face of distaste was quite comical that Mycroft almost couldn’t hold back a chuckle. It was rare that he could annoy his brother in this way; usually, it was the other way around. 

“Do not think I don’t know that this _Tyler_ is one of your MI6 agents. What puzzles me, however, is how you got them to learn how to make espresso…? Well, never mind. That’s not the point. Half of the staff in that shop on that day were your agents. Not only were you trying to reaffirm to John your inclination towards the same sex, but you were trying to make my flatmate jealous! Oh, how absolutely… normal!”

“What did he say?”

“Who?”

“John.”

“Oh. He asked if you were _involved_.”

Mycroft smiled, “What did you tell him?”

“I refused to act as an intermediary, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, almost cringing. “This whole business is appalling.”

Sherlock stood up and paced the room, his hands gesturing almost wildly, obviously craving something to hold in his hand, his beloved instrument was gravely missed at this very moment. 

“I forbid it,” he said with firm finality.

“I beg your pardon? What do you forbid, exactly?” 

A mocking condescension was evident in Mycroft’s voice.

“I need my doctor present and focused, not lovelorn over my fat brother!”

With that, Mycroft’s attention was fully on Sherlock, who could now feel the almost tangible and hard gaze. He shouldn’t have said that—

“No. _No._ No,” he mumbled. 

He shook his head, as though the continuous action could shake and remove those thoughts and facts away. 

“Child, don’t be overly dramatic. Nothing has happened yet.”

“And nothing shall happen.”

“That is not your decision, Sherlock.”

“It is, and I say, nothing will happen. I’ll prevent any kind of… _relationship_ to occur between the two of you. It’s…”

Sherlock physically cringed. 

Mycroft didn’t see the point of responding to such an outlandish display of childish aggression, so he let silence reigned between them until Sherlock couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“I told him you were married.”

“You did not.”

Mycroft sounded displeased and this made Sherlock smiled.  

“To a man.”

“Sherlock.”

“Your beloved is one of your secretaries.”

“I don’t have a secretary.”

“Well, John doesn’t know that.”

“You will undo this.”

“I will not. Out of the question. Besides, as I’d anticipated, John, an honourable man that he is, dropped the matter entirely. Because you are married, that shows absolute commitment and true love on your part to this beloved, therefore it confirmed in John’s mind your absolute devotion to your beloved.”

“I don’t have a beloved.”

“You do now, dear brother. Like all the other normal fools of the world.”

Satisfied and content, Sherlock sat opposite his brother, crossed his legs, and steepled his fingers together ending it with a smug. _Game. And. Over._

Mycroft let the matter slide until he could get a rematch. They discussed the case and pushed John out of their minds. 

He’d let Sherlock have this one. 

But because Mycroft Holmes was _Mycroft Holmes_ , a little obstruction in a plan could only serve to fuel it. Several days after the meeting with Sherlock, he saw a clear opportunity. Sherlock was at Barts with fresh, newly arrived body parts (and of course he ensured such arrival; he’d assigned another case to his brother, a mundane one to be completely honest but one with rather perplexing details that ignited Sherlock’s enthusiasm). 

It was a cool, crisp evening, and from the information gathered by Anthea, John was having a night-in at Baker Street. Mycroft didn’t announce his arrival nor did he call ahead to notify John of his intent, instead, he arrived almost formally, he knocked on the door, to which Mrs Hudson answered and showed him to the sitting room of 221B as though he was one of many of their clients.

John’s surprised expression was one of the most endearing thing he had ever seen. 

“I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said.

“Of course, not. Don’t be silly,” said John with a soft smile. “What can I do for you?”

“This is, I believe, one of those social calls. I have deprived you of my brother with this new case I’ve assigned him, so I should compensate, that is, if you don’t mind having me.”

“No, no. I mean, you didn’t deprive me of Sherlock. Glad to have some free time to myself. And I’m glad to have you, Mycroft, I just wish that you could have rung me and tell me that you were coming, so I can prepare something. I haven’t been shopping, you see, so I can’t offer you anything but tea and a very questionable three-day old apple.”

Mycroft smiled. “Tea would suffice. I shall pass on the apple.”

“I wouldn’t dream of torturing you with it anyway. Give me a minute,” John said and shuffled quickly into the kitchen to prepare the tea. Mycroft made himself comfortable and surveyed the room before taking a seat at the sofa.

“Have you been writing, John?” he asked, eyeing the laptop on the table.

“Yeah,” John replied from the kitchen. “I’m updating my blog. I have yet to write up the last two cases.”

“Quite. I very much enjoyed reading your blog. The Geek Interpreter was very entertaining.”

“ _You._ Read my blog.”

“Of course. Is that strange?”

“No. No, I’m glad. Thanks.”

It was odd to hear John’s voice without seeing him even though they were in the same building. That wasn’t really the point, was it? He could have talked to him on the phone if he wanted just to hear that soothing voice. He should employ the next step to his plan sooner than he thought. 

Mycroft smiled cunningly before: “Would you mind very much if I want to arrange dinner for us? You haven’t eaten yet.”

“Oh?” John’s head appeared, then his body followed. “No, I haven’t.”

“I’m not inclined on going out. Perhaps, something can be delivered to us?”

“Takeaway?” John’s surprised expression was so very endearing. “You want us to order takeaway?” 

“Yes. Unless, you want us to share that questionable apple—”

“No, no. Yeah, let’s order something. I just didn’t think you're a takeaway kind of bloke.”

John rummaged through the scatter papers and books on the table, searching for the phone. Mycroft offered him his, but John merely shook his head.

“You wouldn’t want your call history to display a number from some dodgy eatery now, would you?”

“Oh? Are we ordering from a dodgy eatery?”

John chuckled, “No, but I’m trying to protect you here, Mycroft.”

“Much appreciated, Doctor.”

When John finally found the phone, he started dialling. It seemed that John had the number memorised. “A landline number is safer for everyone,” he said as he waited for the call to be answered.

Mycroft could watch this creature for all eternity: John’s delightful smile, his strange little nuances with his expression that ranged from uncertainty to absolute excitement, all of which were for Mycroft, for his eyes only. _Sweet John…_

“Right,” said John, hanging up the phone. “Our dinner will be here in about thirty to forty-five minutes.”

“What are we having?”

It was a genuine question. After all, for the past two minutes, he hadn’t heard a word John had said into the phone—perhaps it was a temporary hearing loss, necessary to fuel other senses, especially that of his sight which had been taking on too much of John’s beauty… 

“It’s a surprise,” said John and before Mycroft could utter another word, he added: “I know you’re on a vegetarian diet, Mycroft. Don’t worry, their vegetarian option is very good.”

“Much obliged.”

“You know, I used to be a vegetarian. But once I got into the army, well, you can’t be a choosy eater, y’know.”

“Quite.”

“Sorry… Not that you’re a choosy eater… _Shit_ …”

John scratched his head nervously. The kettle sounded and saved him from any further embarrassment. John rushed back to finish preparing their tea. Soon, they were sitting together on the couch, sipping quietly and awkwardly. Mycroft could sense John’s discomfort, so he began talking about his brother and some of the past cases he’d assigned him. Little details and tidbits, nothing too indiscreet. Then the topic took a turn into personal matters: Sherlock’s mischief as a youngster, his childhood, and little stories about his university years. John seemed to enjoy his stories, so he continued on. John became inquisitive, which encouraged the conversation. John started asking about Mycroft himself, carefully at first, not to seem too intrusive and over-stepping boundaries. John appeared to be very interested in him, asking him about his schooling, his likes, his dislikes, his interests—but their talk was cut short by the arrival of their dinner. John had chosen Indian, and Mycroft noted the food did not come from a dodgy type of place John had led him to believe; the packaging looked quite refined and tasteful, the meals themselves looked almost elegant. They ate at the sofa. John plated everything neatly. He also ordered beer, which went perfectly well with the meal. They resumed their conversation, easing back in so comfortably and easily. Mycroft hadn’t drunk a beer in some time, he never knew why he hadn’t, he preferred brandy and whisky, something with an extensive personal history than alcohol that had no aim but to get one hammered out of their minds. But now, he enjoyed it very much, not only because John had arranged it for him, but because it was delectable as well. 

Such an enjoyable and leisurely dinner wasn’t part of his ‘plan’ but he also knew that he couldn’t have planned such lovely evening that was beyond his expectations. Right, he had been diverted from his scheme for far too long. He needed to regain his focus. Mycroft noticed that they were sitting closer together than an hour before. John’s head was reclining almost heavily on the Union Jack cushion, his feet were propped up on the coffee table, and an empty plate was on his lap. His head was turned slightly to him when they talked, there was a small drunken haze in John’s eyes. Mycroft could rightly lose himself in that look and he knew if he didn’t take himself out of it, he would be so. Mycroft sipped his beer from the ‘clean’ mug that John had gotten for him and rest his head back onto the back of the sofa. He turned to meet John’s gaze and smiled. He leaned in and brushed his nose against John’s, John smiled and let his forehead fall upon Mycroft’s brow, and their lips barely touched when John, as if snapping himself out of it, jerked back and sat up right. 

“I’m sorry… We can’t…”

John spoke, clearly more to himself than to Mycroft.

“John…”

“You’re married,” John said firmly but softly. 

Mycroft smiled inwardly to himself just for a fraction of a second and didn’t correct John’s false knowledge.

“You’re married, Mycroft.”

John stood up and crossed the room, distancing himself from him. 

Mycroft watched without any word, observing what John, the most wonderfully unexpected person he’d ever met, would do next. John covered his mouth, there was a tired manner to this action. Silence reigned for a moment.

“Mycroft…”

“I understand, John,” Mycroft spoke and rose to his feet, “I’m afraid I have taken up too much of your time. I shall not burden you with my presence any longer. Thank you for this wonderful meal and I’m sorry for troubling you so.” 

He made for the door and a good sensible plan would require him to take an immediate leave and let his sudden absence take its course and effect. However, his impulse had the better of him. Mycroft took swift steps back towards John’s direction, cupped John’s face and smoothed out John’s lips with the tip of his thumb ever so lightly, and, then, without another thought, he took John’s hand and kissed it. He stepped back just as quickly and left Baker Street. 

Mycroft hoped that his plan worked. It should work, he told himself. He could see right through John’s obvious desires for him as well as John’s resistance due to his misunderstanding that Mycroft was married. _Thank you for that, brother_ , Mycroft thought. Now, it should be fine. He had increased John’s desires for him by making himself an unattainable object. John craved him more than ever before. Humans tend to be like that, he thought, wanting something they can’t have. He smiled to himself and now he would allow time to take control. He should make himself scarce for a week or two. _Absence makes the heart grow fonder_ , that was the saying, wasn’t it? Until then, he would make his final move and they both shall have each other like they were meant to.

 


	3. Mycroft’s Flawed Plan

“He has a boyfriend now,” said Sherlock. 

The unfamiliar and unwelcome words echoed displeasingly in Mycroft’s brain. He was dazed momentarily until he registered mockery and irritation in Sherlock’s tone, which surprisingly was not for him. 

“ _Oliver_ ,” Sherlock added with a crunched-up face, “pathetic fellow, positively bland.”

This was certainly an unforeseen circumstance—not a setback but an undeniably and downright failure. “How long?” he asked his brother.

“Two weeks,” said Sherlock, there wasn’t any feeling behind his answer, not an in-your-face-brother-dear contempt nor scorn, Mycroft could almost hear sympathy in Sherlock’s voice. 

He had waited too long and let the opportunity slip away. He shouldn’t have played the game this far, he shouldn’t have plans when dealing matters of the heart. As a small consolation, he noted that it was not often he had to handle situations of this area, so there were bound to be errors. 

“It didn’t go as planned,” Sherlock said, now sympathy was full-blown.

“No,” Mycroft confirmed, “I’d planned to visit you both at Baker Street weeks ago, but a recent political matter, as you may have heard, had me detained.”

“So, you couldn’t bring your plan to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Evidently not.”

“When it comes to John, I find that plans tend to go awry. They don’t work with him. He’s… _different_.”

“That, I grant you, is true.”

“What will you do now?”

“Do I detect sympathy, brother mine?”

“Not at all,” answered Sherlock, a little too mechanically and much too quickly.

Mycroft chuckled without any humour. There was concern in Sherlock’s expression, he could see it and sighed, “I shall proffer my congratulations to the happy couple, that is what I’ll do, and that is what you shall do as well.”

Sherlock rose and swung his coat around his shoulders. 

“He’s having a party,” he said. “Is that what normal people do? Have parties when they’re in a relationship?”

“It’s a coming-out party, Sherlock,” Mycroft inferred. “John is announcing he’s in a relationship with a man. He has never openly been with someone of the same sex, this is a big step for him.”

Sherlock nodded, whether he absolutely understood the concept, Mycroft couldn’t be sure. “It is at Baker Street, this Saturday. You can—”

“I doubt he would like me there.”

Mycroft watched Sherlock leave. 

He could feel the emptiness more prominently than he had ever felt in his life so far. It was equivalent to being placed unannounced in a void. The cool air of his office penetrated his skin and heat pooled around his face. He closed his eyes and breathed, but no matter how much air he inhaled, his nerves could not be calmd. At this moment, he itched for action: something concrete and tangible, not thoughts, speculations, resignations, not sitting comfortably in his chair while deeds were performed and carried out by others at his order. He needed to do something and he needed to do it himself.  

Mycroft searched for a recording of John’s recent whereabouts in the past weeks. He needed to know what he had been missing, what he failed to know, what John had been doing since he had last saw him. Anthea had prepared a report: files and a video footage were in his private, secured drive; Mycroft accessed them and navigated his way through all the facts. And just as quickly and instantaneously, he regretted doing so. 

There was a minute-long video footage and many photos of John’s dates with this Oliver. Oliver was handsome, _very handsome_ , young, perhaps in his mid-thirties, tall, well-built, dark-haired, sharp cheekbones and jaw, wide smile, soft features. John appeared as though he was in love and Oliver couldn’t take his hands off John: lingering at his waist, cupping his cheek, tousling his hair…

Mycroft deleted the footage, threw away the photos, and drank his oldest bottle of brandy until dawn. How utterly ridiculous it was; he pitied himself and then chastised himself for doing so. He occupied his brain with work in the days that followed, unsuccessfully, however. He dreaded Saturday that was coming too soon. 

When the day did arrive, he couldn’t function properly and couldn’t prevent himself from looking at the monitor that would display images from the security cameras overlooking Baker Street. 

How he had disallowed and prohibited himself for so many years from sentimentality, from feeling, from love, and how he had failed all of them made him feel overly and thoroughly ashamed. Shame and annoyance and heartaches—a very dangerous combination—had snapped something within the forest of his mind. Because, right then, Mycroft got up from his desk, exited his office, and ordered his driver to take him to his brother’s flat. 

It was midday. Sherlock wasn’t home. 

He found John just sitting there, in the middle of the sitting room, reading. He was so peaceful and so content, so unaware of the thumping of Mycroft’s heart, the pain and pang he had to endure for the past days since he was informed of John’s new love. 

Mycroft couldn’t control himself, couldn’t control his desires any longer. He yanked John out of his chair and pressed their lips together.

It hurt—the pressure, the sudden crash, the anguish and agony of it all…

“Mycroft?”

Shock was written across John’s face, his lips were red and swollen from the sudden abuse. John was concerned; Mycroft could see it. Why was John concerned? _This was for him, surely this was for him…_

He caressed John’s cheek before kissing him again, panting John’s name into his mouth. “ _Please_ ,” he begged, although he was uncertain to exactly what he was begging for. John couldn’t possibly give him what he wanted. There was no way his wishes could be fulfilled. His heart was beating fast, he hadn’t felt like this before, his blood was pulsing through his veins, heat was escaping from his body and entering simultaneously. 

John’s fingers were in his hair. 

“Mycroft,” John whispered and he never wanted anyone else to call his name ever again, he merely wanted John and John alone. John touched his cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers, looking at his face, tracing his jaw. Their lips met once more, ever so softly. He felt weak then suddenly he was numb, he let his forehead fall upon John’s, feeling the heat of John’s breath against his nose, against his nostrils, against his lips. 

“ _Please, John_ ,” he begged again, barely a whisper.

Both of their bodies swayed by the warm mists of their desires and fell slowly into John’s chair. Mycroft pressed down on the smaller man, crushing his lips to the moist flesh and kissed John’s throat. It was beginning to turn desperate, even more than before. Their tongues collided; they kissed deeper and harder as though they wanted to swallow each other. Mycroft kissed John’s lips, mouth, jaw, cheek, throat, neck, every inch of John’s face didn’t elude his lips. He inhaled deeply behind John’s ear, whispered his name over and over again, thrusting his hips into John’s. 

John’s hands were all over him, egging him on, encouraging his appalling behaviour. Then, those hands were on his crotch, cupping his growing erection, groping and fondling, undoing his belt and his trousers.

John slid his trousers down below his hips, where they stayed, and touched him—John’s bare palm against Mycroft’s own hard length—while John’s other hand studiously unfastened his own jeans.

Mycroft gasped loud and clear when their hard cocks met and pushed and prodded at one another. He moaned uncontrollably when John began to slide and thrust. John grabbed them both in his hand, two hard and increasingly wet members in one grip, and Mycroft could do nothing else but hold on. He swung his arms around John’s neck, locking at his hands at the nape. He moved and thrusted and pushed into John. The fiction and the heat and the sensation of John’s hand moving in between them keeping in rhythm with the movements of their bodies were exhilarating. Their skin grew hotter and wetter by the second, sweating out of every pores; both of their cocks had leaked an obscene amount of pre-cum. They moved faster, John’s hand was pumping hard at such a speed.

Mycroft groaned and released.

John followed almost immediately; his hands didn’t stop moving. 

Hot semen splattered on their bodies, undeniably, there would be stains on their clothes. They panted into each other’s mouth, sweat dripped down their foreheads and their temples.

“ _Fucking hell…_ ” John hissed. “ _That was… Jesus…_ ”

Mycroft could hardly register what was said. His head was spinning. He felt as though he could faint at any moment. He looked at John, he looked at that flushed face and small mouth and pink lips and those adorable nose and those eyes. He needed to kiss John again, he must kiss him again. So, he did. He kissed John’s lips with all of his being until they both severely needed to breathe again. He nestled his head into the crook of John’s neck, pressing his forehead into the hot, damp skin. They sat like that for some time, catching their breaths, Mycroft’s body on John’s. 

That was certainly a divergence.

_Unplanned._

That wasn’t anything he had in mind, frankly because it was beyond his every expectations. That wasn’t something he thought he would ever do: having sex on John’s chair, thrusting into John’s cock and hand… _That was utterly extraordinary_ …

“Hey…” John whispered, snapping him out of the post-coital haze. John’s lips touched his forehead and Mycroft realised that he liked that feeling, that touch. “We better clean up.”

Mycroft uncurled himself from John’s embrace and looked into his eyes, his soft and kind eyes that were now sparkling and gleaming for him. 

“Yes,” was all he could muster as a response.

“We’re having a party here in just a bit. You’re welcome to stay…”

Mycroft stopped. _Party. John’s boyfriend_.

Mycroft stood up very abruptly and pulled up his trousers. _How could John think about his party when they had just done that?_ What was John thinking? What was he thinking? Coming here and—it was a mistake, it was all a mistake. He thought that perhaps if John could be with him first, then John would be his. Of course not. He had led John to be unfaithful to his boyfriend, that was all he could think of at this moment, he had thrown himself to John because he couldn’t control himself, because he wanted John, because he thought that if he could have John now, John would be his, because then John would know that he loved John and John alone, he had no one else but John. And John loved him… _Right?_

“No,” Mycroft whispered, “you don’t…”

“Mycroft?”

“This is a mistake. I’m very sorry… I’m very sorry, John.”

Mycroft left Baker Street. He knew right then he could never return and vowed to himself to never do again.

 


	4. John's Retaliation

Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair and sifted through a particular file in his mind palace. He had labelled it ‘Red Herring.’ It should be in the older cabinets, which are just right underneath the grand staircase that led to the second floor. There was an old room directly below, a cupboard under the stairs to be frank, and most of the files and information from and about his childhood were stored there. Now, he had reviewed the item marked ‘Red Herring’ before—very recently in fact. He had erased all the facts and attributes related with this file from his mind. He vaguely remembered and if he recalled correctly, he had a glance at it when his brother came to visit him at Baker Street some months before. Why did he erase it? Oh yes, because he didn’t need _that fact_ … Why didn’t he need it? What was it? 

He asked himself and his brain supplied: “Because Mycroft loves John.”

_Right. Definitely no need for that!_

It was a horrid business, more ghastly than his most gruesome and most terrifying cases. However, he needed that file again. _Why is that so?_ Because, sitting right in front of him was a man smelling of many, many red herrings. This time, the man was John Watson.

“John,” Sherlock began, “what do you know of red herrings?”

John’s crooked brows spoke of intrigue as well as confusion. He shot such look at Sherlock and drove right back to reading _The Guardian_. “That they’re fishes?” John supplied and ended with his signature chuckle of ridicule, as though Sherlock had just said the most ridiculous thing ever to be heard by human ears. 

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. 

John, then, began to elaborate, thinking that perhaps Sherlock was truly uneducated in the area of fishes and kippers, similarly to his poor understanding of the solar system: “Well, they’re smoked, you see, kippers. They’re usually split lengthwise and smoked over woodchips”—Sherlock made an even worst sort of expression now—“that is _not_ what… this is about… Do you want to tell me what you’re talking about? Exactly?” 

“You didn’t have your party the other day.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. It was cancelled.”

“You actually didn’t plan on having a party at all.”

“I did,” John replied, articulating his words in the manner which Sherlock hated the most because John would speak to him as though he was speaking to a child. “That was why I invited people.”

“Who did you invite?”

“Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, you…”

“Three people!”

“Yes.”

“To my knowledge of social gathering, three people don’t qualify as a party.”

“I would have been there too, you know. And Oliver and—”

“ _Oliver_.”

“Sherlock. How many people did we have at our Christmas party?”

“Five.”

“Right.”

“And your point?”

“My point is it doesn’t matter how many people you invite to a party, Sherlock. A party is a party. You and I can have a party right now, just the two of us, and we can call that a party. It would be incredibly sad, but it would still be a party.”

“But that’s not the point!”

“Then what is your point?!”

“Red herrings!”

John almost screamed, again. He got up from his chair and went into the kitchen to prepare tea. If he was going to have a conversation with Sherlock, he needed a good amount of tea. When he returned to the living room with two hot mugs, Sherlock took one and began again.

“My brother.”

“What about him?”

“He’s in love with you.”

John didn’t respond and made no attempt to. So, Sherlock continued his speech, “John. Let me be frank. I don’t want to waste my mental energies on ridiculous matters. What I can see now is that you’re doing exactly what my brother did months ago, the same similar method, but I can’t figure out what that method entails. Perhaps it deals with sentimentality, that is probably the reason why I can’t find the answer. Now, I know something is happening and I would like to know what it is. Because, for God’s sakes, I don’t know what it is!”

“Okay,” John nodded, throwing his hands up, “all right. Let’s work it out together.” 

John sighed and leant back in his chair, then leaned forward once again, obviously feeling uncomfortable. This type of thing was hard for him. 

“First of all, I know what your brother did. Those elaborate plans and schemes of his.”

“You knew? Of course you knew about his herrings!”

“Okay, stop it with the herrings. Yes, I knew about them. His plans, I mean. I knew that he was trying to test me or whatever he was trying to do.”

“Lure you is more like. How did you know?”

“Anthea and I do talk, y’know. She and I are probably the only two people who have to deal with you bloody Holmes children. When you told me Mycroft was married, I didn’t believe you. I don’t know why I didn’t believe you, but I just didn’t. But, I couldn’t be sure either. You’ve cast a doubt in my mind. So, I asked Anthea. She said he wasn’t. Now, I know you, Sherlock, don’t think I don’t. I do. So, why would you lie to me? I figure that because you don’t want me to be interested in your brother.”

“Correct.”

“Right. I also ask myself, why would you go to such lengths? You would do so to prevent me from pursuing him. But why would you think that such a pursuit would ever work if Mycroft wasn’t interested, then it hit me: he did. _That_ was why you went to such lengths, you lied because you not only want to prevent me from pursuing him, but because you knew that I would succeed if I did. Then, I also realised that whole schtick of his—the flirting, the way he smiles, the ways he looks at me, I could see it, I’m not blind, but I wasn’t certain—your elaborate lie merely confirmed everything.”

“ _Damn_.”

“And you’re right. There is something else.”

Sherlock arched his brow and listened more intently than he should. 

John’s lips crooked into a sly smirk as he revealed: “I’m actually not with Oliver.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. 

“If you had listened to me three months ago, I told you about him. He’s an old mate from school, two years behind me. He got transferred back to London. He’s a good bloke, a very good friend—”

“Better friend than me?”

John gave Sherlock a sharp look. 

“As of this moment, yes, he is. Sherlock, do you want to listen to this or no?”

“Go on then.” 

“Well, I asked him for his help—playing around for Mycroft’s security cameras and all that—but really he’s just a mate.”

“That explains it!”

“And the party—”

“Was just a ruse to rile Mycroft up! Ha! I understand now. You ordinary people are so dull!”

“It was my birthday.”

Sherlock blinked. 

John looked at him quite dangerously. 

“Mrs Hudson wanted to throw me a birthday party.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“ _Your birthday_.”

John nodded without blinking. 

Sherlock tapped his fingers uncomfortably on the armrest of his chair. “Oh,” he mumbled. Sherlock let silence dispel some of John’s hard gaze before asking, changing the course of their discussion a bit, “what do you intend to do next? With Mycroft.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right.”

“But, that’s… _not_ right.”

“You don’t want me pursuing your brother. Then I won’t.”

“Well, I rather you end up with my brother than with some dull, boring man or a needy, annoying woman like your previous girlfriend.”

John studied his friend with such scrutiny. Stillness engulfed them and it took quite some time before Sherlock pulled himself out of in his own thoughts and spoke again. He addressed John ever so seriously: “I wouldn’t mind, if you were to… pursue him. And I wouldn’t mind if he would want to reciprocate your feelings, whatever they may be… and vice versa… etc., and so on…”

“ _And_?” John quirked his brow and smirked.

“And… I’m… _sorry?_ ” here, Sherlock Holmes cocked his head as though to ask if the word was correct, having rarely used it, “I forgot your birthday. If I could make it up to you, I would but you don’t seem to be bothered by it, so I can correctly inferred that it’s not a big deal.”

“Actually,” John said, an idea had suddenly popped into his mind. “There is something that you can do to make it up to me.”

Sherlock arched his brow and it was several days later that would he find out what exactly the request entailed. Sherlock had had the notion that it would be weeks before his brother would request to see him, after all, he had just solved one of the most important cases the English government had ever commissioned him, not to mention several minor ones at Mycroft’s request. He didn’t think they would require his help again, until a much later date of course. He was wrong—rarely but that does happen—he should have known that most of the people, if not all, employed by the British intelligence are incompetent buffoons. For this matter, he was summoned to the Diogenes Club with, unbeknownst to his brother, John Watson in tow. 

“Do what you always do all the time: ignore me,” John had said to Sherlock before they left Baker Street. 

So, as they waited for his brother, Sherlock ignored his friend completely; it was like any other ordinary meeting he would have with Mycroft, they would talk, he would make snide comments and antagonise Mycroft, perhaps delve into his laziness a bit, yes, that would be the central topic.

The door opened precisely five minutes after their arrival. Mycroft entered with a document in his hand. 

“Much oblige, Sherlock, for your prompt attendance,” he eyed his Sherlock, who was sitting so readily in the chair facing the door. One of Sherlock’s methods, of course: prodding at Mycroft’s OCD—taking Mycroft’s preferred chair, forcing him to sit in the ‘guest’ chair,—and Sherlock could feel a sense of control playing in his favour.

“Get on with it, Mycroft,” he said, “I have a more pressing case at hand.”

“What, the case of the headless monk? A little too obvious, isn’t it?”

Mycroft crossed the room, put his hand on the back of the guest chair, and smiled cunningly to his brother, “Have you ever thought to observe more carefully the fabric of his robe?”

This instilled a little something in Sherlock’s brain. Sherlock furrowed his brows.

Mycroft took a few more steps with the intention to sit and finally he was able to see that there was another man occupying the chair opposite from his brother’s. John’s smaller form was hidden from full view by the tall-back, leather furniture. Mycroft’s speech seemed to find itself in the realm of incoherency. If his stunned expression was anything to go by, Sherlock didn’t latch on it. A very noticeable blush appeared on his face and still Sherlock made no comment and proceeded to talk to him as though they were alone.

“Tell me why I’m here,” said Sherlock. 

Mycroft’s eyes were still on John, who didn’t even turn to look at him and who was now carefully unfolding himself from the chair and leisurely walked to the other side of the room. John took a seat by the window overlooking the busy streets below; sunlight streamed in, lighting up his blond hair into a fiery ball of sunshine, as he crossed his legs at the knees and proceeded to continue reading the newspaper. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Mycroft, if you are going to summon me here and offer me no facts, you are wasting my precious time.”

“It’s a delicate matter,” Mycroft uttered softly and sat down. The warmth of John’s heat on the chair infused and engulfed him. He almost shuddered. “I much prefer it if we are alone.”

“You know that if you give me a case, any case at all, my companion will have knowledge of it. The doctor always assists me.”

Sherlock never batted an eyelid once towards John’s direction; his expression was ever so focused on Mycroft and it was certainly a surprise to Mycroft at the same time. He began his speech, describing the backbone of the case, the concrete facts, the players, the victim, several main suspects, and finally his own unproven theory. 

“Why do you need me? You solved it,” said Sherlock.

“You know I don’t bother with evidence. I need these facts and figures verified. Don’t you find it remotely interesting?”

John turned the page of his newspaper, crinkling and flipping sounds steered the room into silence; he was still ever consumed by the headlines and contents. Mycroft looked over at the corner of his eyes—with longing desires, dread, aches…

Sherlock scoffed. 

Mycroft turned back to his brother.

“Fine,” muttered Sherlock. “I’ll take the case.”

Sherlock stood up quickly, swung his coat, and tied his scarf. He exited without another word. 

Mycroft watched John, who followed Sherlock like a shadow out of the room. He sighed—tired—and leaned his head back against the back of the chair. What was the meaning of all that? Did John simply want to taunt him for his lapse of judgement? To watch him succumb to his own weakness and desire in front of his own brother? But John wasn’t that kind of man; a _kind_ man, John Watson was, and a good man, the man… 

Footsteps sounded behind him. 

Before he could react, John was standing next to him, looking down at his sitting form. John’s eyes cast downward, looking at his hand. Then, ever so carefully, so tenderly and just as swiftly, John scooped it up with his own and pressed his moist lips to the back of it. Puffs of warm breath greeted Mycroft’s cold skin. John caressed his palm with his thumb, turned his hand over, and lay a firm, wet kiss at his wrist.

Mycroft had to relearn how to breathe, how to cope, how to stop staring at John like an idiotic fool as he walked away and out the door.

“You are unbelievable,” said Sherlock with a sneer. They were on the kerb, just outside the Diogenes Club. “Just tell him and spare me the pain of having to endure this whole sordid business.”

“Well, if your brother wasn’t such a pillock to begin with, we wouldn’t be in this whole mess. And you—”

“Yes, I know. If I hadn’t made up a story and create a misunderstanding, blah, blah…!”

Sherlock waved a hand and stormed away with a huff.


	5. John’s New Patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies! There are now 6 chapters because the last chapter was so long that I had to split them up. Many editing woes resulted, but I do hope very much you will enjoy this chapter (a bit cuddly and fluffy, this one).

John could play this game until he was satisfied (or perhaps until Mycroft cracked again), but he also knew that he wouldn’t want to milk it in the same manner Mycroft had done. If he was an expert at anything, he was certainly an expert at dealing with the Holmeses; and Mycroft was certainly different from Sherlock: Mycroft’s keenness to believe his deception was mostly due to his contempt for checking the facts even if he knew what they truly were. There was something else as well. John knew Mycroft wasn’t the lazy man Sherlock had always say he was and had led everyone to believe. Mycroft was a very capable and active man, he merely didn’t need to bother with such a mundane action when he had all those subordinates at his fingertips. Furthermore, he began to feel that when it was anything remotely related he—John, himself—Mycroft seems to be giving up more easily than anything else. Perhaps he was being biased? No, he wasn’t. He felt it. He could feel Mycroft’s attention and devotion, and at the end of the spectrum: Mycroft’s disheartening at the mere thought that John had loved someone else. He felt all of that. Therefore, John was very well aware that if he continued to play in this game, in which he seemed to be winning, he would be driving Mycroft further and further away. It didn’t take him long to realise the powers he had over the Holmes Brothers—although, John would be the last to admit that he even had such an influence over the two wisest and most intelligent men in the world. It had almost become common sense, or perhaps a sixth sense, a special tendency that was rather inherited or born with than learned. And, certainly, John Watson was a natural Holmes-whisperer. 

Mycroft hadn’t visited Baker Street since _that day—_ his birthday, with indeed the most magnificent present John could ever hope to receive—and John knew Mycroft would never do until the current status quo change. When he had made that final decision and had asked Sherlock to let him accompany him to the Diogenes, it was to reignite the flame that was threatening to extinguish. There, he saw the fear and the longing in Mycroft’s eyes, the way they glimmered at him, and Mycroft’s genuine surprise when he pressed his lips to Mycroft’s hand and wrist. That soft skin against his mouth, John could easily do that all day: kiss Mycroft. He would gladly perish from dry, chapped lips and suffocation. He chuckled lightly to himself; what would Sherlock say or even do if he was to find him dead from kissing Mycroft? 

Nevertheless, John knew he had made his final move and waited for Mycroft to make the next. However, the next move never came and John’s heart was too eager and too impatient. 

One early morning however, a smile spread across his face when he heard conversations brewing from the sitting room at Baker Street—hisses and whispers and scoffs and snide comments. He hurried downstairs, expecting to meet his heart’s desire, but, instead, he was greeted with Anthea’s sarcastic and knowing smile. 

Sherlock threw fast, unfeeling remarks ranging from the stupidity of government personnels to his brother’s slothfulness (although, he had the unconscious care to refrain from referring to Mycroft by name). Anthea had always been able to hold her ground; she was Mycroft’s right-hand after all. Although Sherlock was keen to antagonise her at times, there was a strong mutual respect between them. They talked quickly and the matter was finished. 

When Anthea prepared to depart, John asked, “Where is he?”

“Home,” she answered. Anthea had stopped lying to him—well, on certain occasions, since they began to talk on a more friendly term. “He’s ill,” she added.

“Is he all right?”

“Slight fever,” Anthea said, before offering: “he had seen one of our doctors, I made sure of it, despite his stubbornness,” she muttered the last part under her breath, to which John smiled, “there is nothing worrying. The doctor said he had been exerting too much physically and hadn’t been sleeping properly.”

“Any dangerous security system I should be aware of?” John asked. 

Anthea picked up on it immediately.

“I strongly advise against it. But that would be me talking as his employee.”

“What about you as my mate?”

She arched her brow and, after a sigh, said,“I would say: ask Sherlock for the key.”

John did exactly that.

And, perhaps it was down to the simple fact that Sherlock wanted the affair to be over as soon as possible because he didn’t protest and gave almost willingly to John the key to Mycroft’s home.

John had never been there before and felt somewhat uncomfortable that the first time he was to step foot in it would be by breaking in and entering uninvited. His presence could be unwelcome. Surely, it would be. He dismissed it immediately; he needed to see Mycroft and nothing would stop him. 

Mycroft’s place of residence was a Georgian house in Islington. John would never have guessed that Mycroft Holmes lived here. He had the notion that Mycroft would have a grand mansion, or several grand mansions, somewhere in the city, a luxurious house in Chelsea or some place similar. Sherlock had assured him that although Mycroft did indeed own a house in Kensington as a matter of fact—a fraction of an inheritance from a distant uncle, Sherlock added—he was most likely to be found here. John could understand instantly why Mycroft preferred this, for as soon as he was inside, there was warmth as well as a homely feeling to it. The interior of the house was a mixture of modern and archaic comfort: there were books that filled all the walls of the drawing room and in the middle of it was a stately writing desk—an antique, Victorian, another item of inheritance perhaps—with a computer monitor sitting right on top of it. The house had a modest little sitting room with high ceilings, bright and lively, sash windows overlooking the garden outside, and a comfortable-looking little old sofa facing the television, which right next to it was an original fireplace; caramel hard wood floors lined the whole house including the open kitchen that grant an outside access to the flagstone patio-garden. The kitchen was light and airy and it might have looked sparkling clean in its normal state, now however, it was clattered with dirty dishes, books, papers, and an unwashed glass of milk. 

Sherlock had also told him that Mycroft usually have a cleaning lady around when he wasn’t home. How alike were the brothers, John thought, even if they worked so hard to be dissimilar, to be two entirely different individuals, he could rightly see the core Holmesian sensibility ( _or insensibility?_ ) and the dismissal of something as mundane as household chores. 

John stood there a bit longer than he would have wanted— _how a man’s home tells so much about the man himself_ , he reflected—and knew at that instant he was falling in love with Mycroft’s home. The house was a haven of calm in the middle of this bustling city, a burst of history creeping in between cracks of modernism, a figure of elegance and dignity wrapped around a soft core of tranquillity and safety and cosiness…

John pulled himself out from his reverie. 

He noted to clean up the kitchen later and forged on towards the stairs. 

_Christ, this is such an invasion of privacy_ , his brain supplied as he reached the first landing, another few steps took him to the second floor. There were a couple of small paintings that lined the wall to his right; he hadn’t the time to admire them because at the end of this short passage was a door, which was left ajar. 

It was the master bedroom.

John carefully peered through the crack. 

It was dark; the curtains were still drawn shut. In the faint light, John could see a figure under the duvet, breathing heavily and with difficulty. 

“ _Mycroft_ ,” John whispered.

He quickly went to him, pulled back the duvet, and pressed the back of his hand against Mycroft’s forehead. 

Mycroft’s skin was clammy and he had a very high temperature. 

John crossed the room and drew back the curtains slightly to let in the soft morning sunshine. Assuming a mode he was all too familiar with, he found the bathroom, a clean towel, and a bowl. He filled the bowl with cool water, wetted the towel, and applied it to Mycroft’s face and neck. 

Mycroft was still unaware. His eyes were closed and he moaned incoherently. The night clothes in which he wore were damp with sweat, clinging to his body. John unbuttoned the shirt, exposing chest that was pale from the fever. He dapped the towel there, wiping away the sweat and cooling the skin. Mycroft was in worst condition than he had thought. Anthea had said it was just a slight cold, but what he was seeing was a full-blown fever. 

John looked around and saw, on the bedside table, an unopened bottle of paracetamol. “ _Christ_ ,” he grumbled under his breath. “You stubborn git! You didn’t take any of it, did you?”

John ran his hand through Mycroft’s hair. “Mycroft? Can you hear me?”

A low moan escaped as a response. 

John had always been a professional, a _very good_ doctor as he had once ensured Sherlock. Taking extremely great care of his patients and giving them his fullest attention were his main priority; he had never let his own emotions hinder his ability to heal. However, at this precise moment, as he stared at Mycroft Holmes’s sweaty, heaving body, as he listened to those moans, as his hand combed through Mycroft’s hair, he couldn’t help himself and he bent down and lay a firm kiss at the centre of the Mycroft’s chest. Hairs brushed against his nose and tickled his lips and he inhaled deeply. He breathed unexpected huffs of breaths onto that area of clammy skin. _Fucking hell_ , he berated himself. But he hadn’t more time to continue because when he looked up, Mycroft’s eyes were open and were staring at him with such a frightful look. There was a definite shock in his expression, although it was heavily clouded by fatigue and confusion. 

“Hey,” John said softly, “you all right?”

Mycroft looked at him, his inability to find the words to respond was evident.

John pushed a wisp of hair away from Mycroft’s forehead, running his hand through Mycroft’s hair just one more time.

Mycroft finally produced a response, his voice was weak and hoarse. “Fine…” he whispered. 

“We need to change you out of these damp clothes. Can you sit up?”

Mycroft winced as he attempted. 

John leaned in closer. “Put your arms around my shoulders.”

“I’m… fine…”

John arranged Mycroft’s arm over his own shoulders, ignoring the weak protest, and pulled him into a sitting position. 

“Take off your shirt,” he ordered. Mycroft gaped slightly, horrified. “Your clothes are damp. I won’t allow you to continue sleeping in them.”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment before obeying; he did it slowly, weak from the exertion and the obvious embarrassment. 

John raided the wardrobe—a large, modern wood thing standing at the opposite end of the room—rummaging through hanging sleek bespoke suits, through the neatly folded trousers, and surprisingly many articles of informal clothing such as short-sleeve shirts and jeans, until he found a suitable garment: fresh, thick cotton shirt and comfortable, pyjamas trousers. He soaked the towel in the bowl before applying it on Mycroft’s chest, stomach, arms, shoulders, back, underarms. He dressed him with the new shirt and pried the waistband of the old, damp pyjamas bottoms.

“What… are you… doing?” Mycroft croaked.

“What?”

Mycroft’s hand was preventing him from going any further.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before,” said John. He smirked and eyed Mycroft with such an emphasis. “Or touch it for that matter.”

Mycroft’s face assumed the usual expression of stubbornness and exasperation, despite the clear blush raising up his neck. He pushed John’s persistent hand away.

John moved closer and Mycroft jerked back.

“Mycroft Holmes, take off your trousers,” John punctuated each word, his eyes spoke of an adult trying to handle a very naughty boy—not unlike the ways he had to deal with his flatmate everyday of his life since living with him. “ _Now_.”

Mycroft admitted defeat and pulled his hand away. 

John slid the pyjamas off easily and replaced it with the new one, supporting Mycroft’s hips with his hands, helping him into the garment. When he looked up, Mycroft’s sickly pale face was blushed pink and red, he looked a bit more refreshed, however.

“Do you need to use the toilet?” 

Mycroft shook his head.

“Let me know if you do, all right?” 

He gathered up the duvet and covered the lower half of Mycroft’s body. He felt Mycroft’s neck with both hands, touching lightly at the base, feeling for any tenderness and swollen glands, then examined his eyes and his face.

“Open your mouth for me?” 

Mycroft opened his mouth. 

“Stick out your tongue.” 

Mycroft did so as well and John could see the redness of his throat. 

“Did you take any of these medications at all?” asked John as he examined the bottles that were sitting at the side table, knowing the answer full-well that Mycroft hadn’t even touched the bottle. 

Mycroft shook his head. 

John gave him two tablets and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher that was sitting on the bedside table. “These will bring the fever down.”

Mycroft reclined back against the pillows and fought to keep his eyes open, watching John putting away his soiled clothes and the bowl and towel. 

John made sure that Mycroft was resting comfortably before going downstairs to take care of the pile of dirty dishes. He tidied up the sitting room a bit and decided to make something replenishing for Mycroft. He raided the fridge and to his surprise, there were food items—fresh vegetables, eggs, fruits, milk. It didn’t cease to amaze him, he wouldn’t think of Mycroft drinking milk like a child when all he had ever seen him so far was with either a tumbler half-full of brandy or a cup of strong tea. 

He knew that Mycroft would not have the appetite, but he could at least try to get some food into his body. So, John made a vegetable rice soup with eggs. Mycroft was asleep, still breathing hard, congestion was so evident. He tapped lightly on his shoulder and stroked down his arm. 

“Hey,” he spoke ever so softly. “Can you sit up for me?”

Mycroft looked at the meal in front of him, grumbled something about not having yet brushed his teeth, and it was some minutes before John could feed him the first bite. 

“It’s my mum’s recipe, this,” John began, scooping a spoonful of broth to Mycroft’s lips. “Not technically hers, but, she was a doctor. She was in an exchange programme in Southeast Asia. Rice soup has a lot of carbohydrates, protein from the eggs, and fibre from vegetables, it’s soothing, easy to digest, and it speeds you up the road to recovery.”

Mycroft ate spoon after spoon until he coughed, his throat was sore and scratchy. “That’s quite enough,” he said. “I… I need to use the toilet.”

John nodded, satisfied that Mycroft managed to finish half of the contents.

It was no trouble hauling Mycroft’s body up, the man was surprising light. He mumbled a small “I can manage” when they were inside the bathroom but John didn’t want to take chances and although he knew Mycroft could take care of business easily, he also knew that this high a fever can create unexpected outcomes. He stood there, seeing the blush appear and disappear from Mycroft’s neck, seeing how he was hiding himself from John’s view, and sensing his embarrassment at the fact that it was a very long wee. 

John didn’t return to Baker Street that night. He found a small guest bedroom on the third floor and took a few hours nap when Mycroft slept before spending the rest of the night watching Mycroft, making sure he was taking the medicine every several hours, applying wet cloth to his growing hot body. The fever was still there. He feared that Mycroft would go into shock if it didn’t go down. The wet cloth didn’t help as much as he had hoped. He remembered suddenly when he was sick with a terrible fever when he was a child, his mum wrapped him up in thick blankets, holding him until he felt like he was in an oven. It wasn’t until he was in medical school did he understand that because his fever wouldn’t relent, his temperature increased, trying to fight off the virus, so when his mother wrapped him up in her arms, she was creating a warm environment so that his body wouldn’t have to. Simple really, although it was highly inadvisable as well, but would it be effective on Mycroft? He could try. And so he did. He brought the extra blanket from the guest room. He held Mycroft’s body and wrapped the duvet around him and then layered it with the blanket. The result was Mycroft’s body in a cocoon in his arms. Mycroft complained of being too hot, although John doubted he would have any recollection of his mumbling and grumbling either tomorrow or when he recovered. Soon, he was sweating and John checked and sure enough, his temperature went down. It was not until dawn when Mycroft was able to sleep a little more easily and peacefully. By then, John had drifted off as well. 

John returned to Baker Street for a change of clothes and his overnight bag. He found Sherlock amid an experiment that would ‘determine an innocent man’s fate.’ He was used to the dramatics and, as a response, simply bobbed his head with a “right.” 

Sherlock didn’t enquire about Mycroft’s well-being, in fact, he made no mention of it at all. John presumed that he had finally deleted the whole matter entirely. However, his presumption was proven wrong when just before he left, Sherlock uttered, “He gets nostalgic and emotionally dependent when he’s sick. And he likes to watch old episodes of _Doctor Who_ when he does, it makes him comfortable.”

John could do nothing else but smile and mutter a surprised thanks. He returned to Islington just after noon and found Mycroft standing at the centre of sitting room. Mycroft stood facing the windows, lights streamed through the partially drawn blinds, making his dark hair glow like burnished wood, his robe hanging loosely on his body, with his back to John.

“Hey, you’re up,” John greeted with a smile, the image he’d found was endearing and very similar to the ones he’d often seen at Baker Street, eerily like Sherlock, and yet more special in so many ways. “How are you feeling?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, he stood there still and unmoved.

“You shouldn’t assert yourself too much, you should be in bed and resting, and allow time for your body to recover.”

Silence once more save for the occasional small sniffles.

“Are you hungry? I don’t think your throat will be able to take hard, solid food just yet. I can make some more soup if you’re not put off by it yet.”

Still no answer from the man; perhaps he was still absorbed in his own thoughts similar to the ways his little brother was at times. John wanted to reach out and secure Mycroft’s attention, but advised himself against it. He sighed softly, his smile was beginning to fade from his lips. He placed his bag and shoppings that he was holding on the floor and began to make his way towards the kitchen when Mycroft turned very swiftly and threw his body into his. They were locked in a tight embrace for barely a second before the force of Mycroft’s movement and body mass propelled them backwards. 

John panted, comforted by the fact that the soft sofa rather than the floor broke their fall. Mycroft’s arms were around him still, clutching and holding him tight. John could feel Mycroft’s clammy forehead pressed up against his neck. 

Mycroft shivered. 

“Please… don’t look at me,” said Mycroft when John shifted his head.

The feeling of loneliness was often heightened in any ill individuals, John had always found. Perhaps Mycroft had woken up without seeing him, couldn’t find him, perhaps felt that he had abandoned him. The usually phlegmatic, unshakeable, stoic man that was Mycroft Holmes standing with such sadness and confusion in the middle of his own house was proof enough. John let his lips glide across Mycroft’s forehead, very gently, and pressed them to the top of Mycroft’s head. 

“I went to Baker Street to get my overnight bag. I didn’t want to wake you. I shouldn’t have left you, but I needed to get groceries as well. All right?”

They sat like that for minutes. John attributed Mycroft to a very large, clingy labrador, clinging on to him, very much like that one afternoon in the front room of Baker Street. 

_No, mustn’t think of that…_

“Do you want to watch Doctor Who?” John asked, wanting to distract his mind. At this, Mycroft shuffled slightly. He untangled himself and looked at John with some hesitation, his eyes were watery and his nose was red and probably still stuffy. “I have _The Three Doctors_ and _The Green Death_ ,” John offered. 

Mycroft’s eyes seemed to light up, but his expression was still unchanged, still blank and almost sad. “ _The Green Death_ ,” he said lowly and nestled his head back against John’s throat. 

“All right,” John chuckled. He squeezed the warm body and struggled to get up on his feet. “I’ll make something. You should have eaten hours ago. It’s my fault—“

“’m not hungry,” said Mycroft, tugging at John’s wrist.

“Well, I’m peckish. I want you to rest first and you will need to eat. That’s an order, do you hear me?”

It was strange to him, although amusing would be a more suitable and accurate term, that Mycroft’s behaviour could change so drastically. Sherlock had mentioned the words ‘emotionally dependent,’ John could do nothing but believe that it wasn’t one of his acts, besides, would Mycroft ever act as like a big cuddly labrador, nodding at his every order and obeying his every command, he highly doubted that. He smiled as he prepared their meals. He liked this side of Mycroft, and every sides the man had. The man thought to be incapable of feeling was, in fact, prohibiting himself from feeling because he knew he would be exactly this: loving, adorable, clingy, sentimental… Well, the man was ill after all. A fever that high could make anyone delirious. He peered back into the sitting some minutes later and found Mycroft under covers. He was reclined on the sofa, a reminiscent of an image of a sickly little boy on a day off from school—to think, this was, on certain days, England’s head of state, and here, he lay lengthwise on the sofa with knees bent and under a woollen blanket, clutching at the cushions under his head, watching _Doctor Who._ He made a light meal for himself, a simple bacon butty, and congee with ginger for Mycroft, which was another of his mum’s recipes. He assured Mycroft, when the older man made an enquiring face, that it was easy to swallow and filling and it should give him strength and the ginger would help with his congestion. Afterwards, he unpacked his bag in the guest bedroom on the third floor. He didn’t hear Mycroft had followed him.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked when he saw the man loitering at the doorway. “You should be resting and not walking around and climbing up stairs. I don’t want you to fall over, y’know.”

“You slept in here?” Mycroft asked. He leaned against the doorframe, obviously tired from the unnecessary exertions. 

“Yeah. Well, napped really. You needed constant looking-after last night. I sat in your room most of the time.”

“You’ll sleep in here tonight?”

“Hmm, yeah.”

“The other room… next door. It’s much bigger.”

“I don’t need a big room, do I? Besides, I like this one.”

“Why?”

“No particular reason.”

“But, why?”

John turned to look at Mycroft properly and cocked his head with some degree of amusement. He looked around, the double bed and its side table took up the whole room, there was hardly space to walk, there were two paintings on the emerald green walls, a sash window adjacent to them that overlooked the garden below, and a little bureau by the door. “Because I do,” he answered.

“This…” said Mycroft, “was my room. This was our family home before we moved away from the city. Sherlock and I grew up here.”

John was a little stunned by this. “So,” he said, “Sherlock’s room…”

“Is the bigger one next door.”

“Spoiled little brat.”

John smiled wide and affectionate. He resumed his unpacking. 

“Did you finish your meal?” he asked.

“No,” Mycroft uttered in a very small voice. 

“I want you to finish all of it.”

“Yes, I will. John?” Mycroft hesitated before he continued. “How long will you be staying?”

“Until you’re better or as long as you need me. I’ll only leave for Baker Street if Sherlock burn down our kitchen. He’s in the middle of an experiment, you see.”

“What about… What about Oliver?”

“Oliver?” John was just a little bit too focused to really hear the question. He was thinking about the whole unpacking situation: unsure if it would be too presumptuous to place his belongings in the bureau or to simply just let them stay in his bag.

“Won’t he mind?” asked Mycroft.

“No, of course not, why would he be? He’s my mate. Getting married next week.”

John decided that since he was welcome, he might as well make use of the furniture. He whipped around, going towards the bureau, and saw Mycroft walking away. He looked out the door; Mycroft was carefully moving down the stairs. 

“Mycroft?”

John went after him. “Hey, are you all right?”

Mycroft reached the second floor and stopped. His head hung over his chest, his hand gripping the banister, knuckles white. “You can leave.”

John was momentarily confused then it hit him. 

He laughed. 

Mycroft cringed. 

There were sniffles again. 

John quickly walked to him and put both his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders turning his body around, glad that he himself was still on the stairs, the steps gave him an extra foot of height, bringing him just an inch or so taller than Mycroft.

“I thought Sherlock told you,” he said, caressing Mycroft’s face, wiping away the moisture at the corner of his eye with the slight press of his thumb. Mycroft’s expression was almost unbearable, John felt weak all of a sudden and yet joyous at the same time. “Oh, you silly, silly man.” He pressed a long, lingering kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. “Oliver really is a mate. He’s getting married next week.” He watched the disbelief in Mycroft’s eyes turning into realisation then understanding. 

“You lied to me,” said Mycroft.

“No, technically, Sherlock lied to you.”

“But…”

“You lied to me first!”

Mycroft inclined his head, unwilling to look into John’s eyes. “So… you don’t have a boyfriend…?”

“No, I don’t. Well, _not yet_.”

Mycroft blushed profusely and John smiled in triumphant.

 


	6. Mycroft’s John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thousand apologies for the delayed update! I have an excuse for this, so I hope you will forgive me! (see the note at the end for further explanation). 
> 
> Anyways, here is the last chapter of this story. Thank you so much for reading and a special thank you to those of you who have been waiting and following this story from the very beginning. Please let me know what you think and thank you again! :)

Mycroft slept. 

The night was cool and light. He was bundled under covers, relishing the comfort that he hadn’t felt and had longed for these past few nights. Although, he wasn’t entirely relaxed; a strange aching sensation was eating away at him. He didn’t know whether it was the draught or some unknown sound from what was obviously a peaceful street outside—relatively silent, nothing was stirring, there shouldn’t have been anything that would have woken him—but he rose from his slumber and found darkness around him. 

He blinked once. Twice. 

He was in his bed, soft light of the lamp outside oozed in through the crack between the curtains. He looked around, he was alone. He tried to remember if this was a different day, a different hour, or several hours… _John_. 

Who _was_ John? 

Who was this man who had made him feel so alone and so warm at the same time? 

Where was John? He needed John. He felt cold and hot all at once. His throat was still scratchy and itchy and his head was spinning. He had almost fully recovered from his illness, but this feeling he was experiencing at the precise moment: this was a different type of fever. 

_John_.

He crawled off his bed and reached for the door. He walked out, hugged himself, and climbed up the stairs. He rubbed his wet eyes and grabbed the doorknob that felt so familiar in his hand and at the same time alien to him at this particular moment. He didn’t care for such a thought now; he pushed in.

“ _John…_ ”

He clambered up the bed and into John’s body, into John’s warmth, into John’s essence and smell and air and skin…

“ _John_ ,” he whispered once more, barely audible, not wanting to wake but with an absolute need to say such a miraculous word—how could a name so simple and so generic belong to such an extraordinary man?  

“Mycroft?” 

John’s voice was throaty and rough. He turned on the lamp sitting on the bedside table. 

_John’s face, his face…_

Mycroft couldn’t stand it, how was that face possible? How could anyone look as beautiful as that? He took John’s lips. John didn’t protest, but his expression was that of bewilderment, and only for a moment, before his lips slackened to receive the kiss. 

“Hey, hey…” John whispered when they parted and Mycroft embraced him tightly. “Are you all right?”

The unexpected visit and the invasion of lips caught John off-guard, but as natural as anything that was with John, he wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s body, no reserves, just plain thoughts of comfort for the person who needed it. And Mycroft needed it, he needed John. John stroked Mycroft’s shoulders and back, rubbing in gentle circles. He pressed the back of his hand to Mycroft’s neck and forehead, checking for signs if the fever was returning. 

Mycroft couldn’t manage it; his body was crumbling and falling apart. Once he regained some sort of strength—if anyone should be brave enough to define it as that—he kissed John again and licked the edge of John’s bottom lip. He kissed his jaw and his throat, his body laying over and half-covering John’s smaller one. 

John’s skin burned from Mycroft’s growing five o’clock shadow, and Mycroft didn’t cease to rub his face against John’s skin. 

Heavy breaths despite himself, Mycroft felt his own heart beating against his chest and up and down his torso, his body shivering, his stomach turning over and over, his arms and legs weak and numb. 

John tugged at the duvet and covered both their bodies. 

Mycroft caught his breath, steadying himself, letting John hold him until he knew his next step. He could always see the next step, and the steps that would follow that. For God’s sakes, he could see twenty and hundred steps after the next! But here, now, with his head against John’s warm chest, listening to the soft beats of John’s heart, he knew nothing else. He didn’t have a plan, he didn’t know his course of action nor the correct path to take. How could he go further? He had never been in this situation. He had never… 

_No…_

John was looking at him now, exploring his face, thumbing his brows, caressing his cheek and temple with one hand while stroking his upper arm—the one that was now lying almost unforgivingly-lifeless around John’s waist—with the other.

“You could have told me you fancy me, y’know,” John said with a soft smile, “instead of planning all those ridiculous plans…”

Mycroft felt an inexplicable shame. How could he ever thought to fool such a man? But no, he didn’t aim to fool, he aimed to win—to win John’s heart—because who would ever give away such a prized jewel without something in exchange? He needed to know, he needed to confirm John’s feelings. 

Mycroft’s brain was supplying endless facts, everything was scrambling together, tangling in a ball of twine. He’d never took action without a plan, without ensuring a course that would end only with a positive outcome. He’d never—

“Mycroft?”

John was hovering over him now. How did he get there? John moved so smoothly, so quickly…

“You flirted with me on the night we met,” John caressed his cheek softly, “did you know you were doing that?”

No. No, of course not. He didn’t know. How could he not know? How could he himself not see his own actions? He shook his head, that was all the response he could summon himself to give.

John smiled.

God, he was thankful for the light. Seeing John was a gift, receiving his touch was a blessing. Mycroft had never believed in coincidence nor fate nor any of that sort, but John was all of that, of everything in one, every miracle he would ever see or experience. 

John wrapped his fingers around his hand, tapped gently on the ring on his finger, and looked at it, observing.

“I didn’t know I could feel so angry when Sherlock said you were married. I pitied myself. I thought, well, that’s it, y’know?”

“Wrong finger…” Mycroft whispered. “A wedding ring should be on the left hand.”

John laughed, “Yeah, well, it could easily mean something. A solemn oath, an unbreakable promise. _Fuck_. I never thought I could envy anyone that much.”

“I don’t have anyone, John.”

John kissed his hand—a long and lingering kiss. John’s eyes were closed as if to exercise all of his senses into the gesture; Mycroft gasped. The tenderness of it made his body ache even more so than before. John caressed his chest and kissed the exposed skin behind the loose collar. John unhooked the rest of the buttons, carefully, kissed each new area of flesh revealed, and pried the fabric open until the whole of his upper body was fully exposed. Mycroft shivered and trembled as John kissed down his torso and breathed deep through his thick chest hair. 

_Frankly, all of this is impossible._

John moved up, meeting his eyes again, staring deep into them. “Will you have me then?”

_Quite utterly impossible, he’s dreaming. He must be…_

Mycroft shook his head slowly in utter disbelief: this wasn’t happening, not to him, not from John. 

“Is that a no?” John asked teasingly. Of course, John knew what he meant, John knew his thoughts, his feelings, his everything; he could feel John reading every inch of him. Nevertheless, he wrapped his arms around John and held him tight. 

“ _Please_ ,” he whispered feverishly, “ _If you’ll have me… Please, yes._ ”

John smiled and resumed his exploration of Mycroft’s body. He kissed and licked down Mycroft’s torso, hands never stopped roaming. John worked slowly but quickly. 

John was a wonder, Mycroft thought, full of unexpected surprises and subtle contradictions that made his heart pound and race and rest in such calmness and peace all at once. 

Mycroft’s shirt soon found a temporary home at the foot of the bed, his pyjamas bottoms were slid down; he closed his eyes, feeling everything ranging from shame to arousal. 

Starting over again at the base of Mycroft’s throat, John glided his lips down his chest and nipped both of his nipples slowly and harshly. John licked and sucked and tasted—it was as though John had been resisting that urge since the very first time he saw Mycroft’s bare upper body, the time that seemed so long ago there in the bathroom of Baker Street. How stupid he was to try such a lame method to seduce John Watson. And yet, Mycroft gathered, it had worked! John was here, licking him, leaving a wet trail down his stomach. His breath caught in some unknown place when he felt John running his nose through his pubic hair and lips down his cock. 

Mycroft was now completely consumed by ecstasy. Hot breaths hovered over his aching and growingly-desperate cock, in an almost teasing manner; Mycroft couldn’t be sure of what John was doing, perhaps, John was assessing. But John would not act upon calculations in a matter such as this. Stupid as Mycroft once believed it to be, John acted on his gut feelings, his emotions, his pure and honest and courageous heart… And at that precise thought, Mycroft almost screamed when John kissed the tip of his cock very tenderly and placed the hot wet shaft in between his lips and swallowing it whole into his mouth.

John sucked and licked and kissed, his head bobbing up and down while Mycroft squirmed and writhed under him. 

It was unbearable—Mycroft was certain beyond anything that John was torturing him. This was utterly too much for him to comprehend, and that in itself a very impossible task to have been accomplished in the first place. Just when he thought he would succumb to peril by this act alone, John nose slid lower and lower, and soon enough, perhaps too soon for his brain to catch up, John was… _down there_.

John licked around the hole, then thrusted his tongue in.

Mycroft screamed.

It was wet and warm and Mycroft had never known the heights of his pleasure until this moment. John managed to hold both of his legs up while he performed the task. The image—he couldn’t withstand the sheer thought and downright ridiculousness of it, he himself spread out for John. 

John’s saliva-slick fingers were in him, he could feel them now. They were added slowly one by one after each thrust and lick of John’s wet tongue. He felt his hole opening up slowly, growing bigger and bigger, the muscles loosen. 

Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, his face was covered with them.

John turned him onto his side, but the assault of the tongue didn’t cease; it continued even deeper than before. John’s face disappeared between the crevice.

Mycroft couldn’t see him anymore, but John’s presence was strongly felt. His cock twitched and as if John could read his thoughts, John reached around and touched him, tugging his cock teasingly with the delicacy of the tips of two fingers and thumb. John licked a long stripe up, kissed the small of his back, then his nape and his shoulder blade. 

“ _God_ ,” John huffed into his hair, “y _ou’re ridiculously beautiful_.” 

John was clothed from head to toe while Mycroft himself was nude. He couldn’t possibly imagine what that would look like, but the thought was lost when he felt John’s cock pressing against his bottom. John kissed his shoulder again and then his temple, and John’s arms came around him, holding him, pressing their bodies together. 

John’s cock was hard and wet and big. Mycroft cried when he was entered. It took some time before John’s cock was fully sheathed. John moved slowly, thrusting in long, slow strokes. John whispered endearments into his ears, softly, in between kisses. He just wished he knew what they were. His brain was clouded by the very important fact that John was inside him, words that he longed to hear were lost in the mists. Pain alternated with pleasure, shooting up and down his entire body, blood rushed through his veins, his cock pulsed. He searched for something to anchor himself, an outlet for his desires and desperation: he grasped the bedsheets. John, dear and lovely sweet John, knew and laced his fingers to Mycroft’s own and squeezed, their hands clasped tight, and John thrusted in deep and hard. Mycroft jerked forward and screamed. John did it again and again. A few more deep, long strokes and he would have gone down the abyss of his desires, but John ceased movement and pulled out of him.

Mycroft breathed raggedly and turned to look. He watched as John sat up, as John rid himself of the pyjamas trousers that had been resting at his ankles, and as John pulled off his t-shirt in one swift movement. He watched and stared and memorised John’s cream-coloured body, smooth skin, and scar of valour.

John leaned down and planted a kiss on his arm. 

Mycroft turned on his stomach once more. He lay, waiting and anticipating, feeling slightly ashamed of himself that his behind was slowly rising into the air ever so eagerly to receive. 

“Mycroft,” John whispered, caressing the back of his thigh. “C’mon, turn around. I need to see you.” 

Mycroft rolled onto his back. 

John dropped his head and kissed the centre of Mycroft’s chest, inhaling the sweet scent of his skin. He stroked Mycroft’s breasts, looking at the way his hand make temporary indentations upon the flesh at the pressing of his fingers. He lowered himself on top of Mycroft, pressing his body in between Mycroft’s legs, brushing their cocks against each other.

Mycroft didn’t break eye contact as John aligned his cock and breached him once more, didn’t turn away as John began pushing in, thrusting into him, fucking him. He spread his legs even wider for John and encouraged him to go deeper with the heels of his feet. 

John dived in for his throat and kissed it, he didn’t stop moving. He reached for Mycroft’s cock and began pumping hard and fast, in rhythm with his brutal and delicious thrusts. Mycroft closed his eyes and released with a guttural scream. Streams of cum exploded out of him, and John continued to tug at his cock until the last drop was squeezed and milked from his body. Before he could come down from this almost drug-like trance, another wave of euphoria coursed through him in the form of John’s semen being poured into his abused hole. 

John rolled off, panting. 

Mycroft opened his eyes and saw John’s flushed, adorable face—there was a smile playing upon John’s lips. He was exhausted; his body still wasn’t yet accustomed to the physical exercise. Sleep was calling for him and he knew it would soon reach him. However, to his ever astonishment and gratefulness, John reached him first. John pulled him close and held him tight.

“You’re the most beautiful creature, Mycroft Holmes,” he whispered. “And you’re _mine_.” 

 

***

 

“Another victory, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked during his visit to Baker Street one afternoon. “Shall I proffer myself some condolences now that you’re succeeding in taking my flatmate away from me?”

“I have no intentions of taking him away from you. Besides, I must thank you. For your advice, that is.”

Sherlock shot him a blank look.

“You were right about John. Tricks and plans don’t work with him. Honesty, as they all appallingly word it, is the best policy. He’s very unique and special.”

“No more planning then?”  
“Not with John, no.”

“Wasn’t that so-called ‘illness’ part of the plan?”

“Of course, not.”

“Not even a little?”

“Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous. How could I have foreseen a fever? In any extent, if anyone deserves the absolute truth and honesty, it is John. I would never lie nor would I ever trick him again. I’ve learnt my lesson.”

Sherlock studied his brother with such manner of scrutinisation. Then, his expression turned into that of disgust.

“Why are you here, Mycroft?” said Sherlock, crossing his legs and reaching for his violin. “I will not take any more cases from you, not even the most menacing one.”

“Alas, no, dear brother.”

“Then why are you here?”

“That’s classified, I fear.”

Quick steps upon the stairs told Sherlock all he needed to know. He exhaled sharply and grind on the instrument in his hand.

“Christ, Sherlock!” John hissed. “Play something that won’t make my ears bleed, yeah?”

The expression on John’s face when he saw Mycroft told Sherlock everything: they hadn’t seen each other since John’s brief stay at Mycroft’s Islington home, Sherlock deduced, and whatever other activities they were engaged in, he rather left it alone. 

John smiled, crossed the room, and kissed Mycroft’s cheek without reservations.

Sherlock broke a string on his violin; sounds came to a stop. He ignored the two men in his living room, stood up, and proceeded to begin an experiment in the kitchen.

“How have you been, John?” Mycroft asked, his voice soft and low.

“Fine. You?”

“Better, now.”

“You have a new case for us?”

“No. I have a problem. For you, actually.”

“Yeah?” 

Concern was creeping into John’s face, but his smiles remained.

“I was wondering if you don’t mind accompanying me to dinner and then perhaps, afterwards, you can solve this problem for me.”

John snickered, “Can you provide me some insights as to what the problem might be?”

“I seem to be missing you quite terribly. I wonder if you can rectify that.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

John pulled him by his tie into a deep, prolonged kiss. Mycroft gladly fell into the embrace. He nestled his head in the crook of John’s neck while John caressed his hips and kissed his collarbone through his shirt.

Sherlock wanted to growl at them and yell at them for such a display but he hadn’t the will to and he didn’t know why a smile was playing at the corner his lips. He simply shrugged and let his brother enjoy his victory.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the very late update, but here marks the end of this story. The reason for my absence is because I was on a holiday. And, to add on to this, on my holiday, I met Mark Gatiss! (Twice!) So, that is my reason. Mark Gatiss, I blame him. lol He's a very lovely chap and he has extremely soft hands.( I shall definitely put that characteristic in any future Johncroft story I may write! XD) Anyways, I do hope very much that you enjoyed reading my story. Thanks again, everyone! <3


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